


Brother My Brother

by lary



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (due to age), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Consent Issues, Dancing, Dubious Ethics, M/M, Sibling Incest, Slash, Underage - Freeform, possible triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 18:59:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5060245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lary/pseuds/lary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Let me guess – you two are arguing again? Do you ever get along?”</p><p>“Oh no, we were having a perfectly civil interaction,” Mycroft says. “Positively invigorating, wouldn't you say, brother mine?”</p><p>**</p><p>There are things long forgotten, deliberately stashed away, things he fears dancing with Sherlock shall inevitably dredge up and bring to the forefront. Curious that he finds himself suggesting it nevertheless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brother My Brother

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: The warning says "underage", I mean it. There's absolutely no coercion or intentional harm, but in the non-graphic backstory Sherlock is VERY young. If that's disturbing or triggery to you, please don't read!

 

“Oh for God's sake,” Mycroft says as Sherlock pulls his frankly divine mouth off his cock and scrambles up. From the sounds coming from downstairs it's clear that it's John rather than Mrs. Hudson. The footsteps on the stairs confirm it, not that it makes much of a difference in the current situation. Mycroft is forced to pull the silk underwear and trousers over his erection rather painfully, but thankfully his suit needs much more than interrupted oral sex to look dishevelled. He leans back in the armchair, settling into a casual pose. “You might consider informing your friend that it is customary for one to return one's key when one moves out.”

 

“Shut up, Mycroft.” Sherlock is less fortunate with his clothes: the half-unbuttoned white dress shirt is rumpled beyond repair and his trousers do nothing to hide his prominent erection, but he solves the problem by quickly crossing the room and throwing on his blue dress robe. Mycroft feels regretful watching the planes of his brother's chest being covered up, but John is nearly at the door so he supposes it's a necessity.

 

“You could ask him to leave.”

 

Sherlock's eyes flicker rather disappointedly downwards to Mycroft crotch, where any evidence of his arousal is now covered by his suit, but the set of his jaw is stubborn as usual. “No.”

 

“No?” Mycroft asks mildly, but Sherlock's eyes flash.

 

“I'll rather kick you out,” Sherlock says just as John opens the door to the flat.

 

Mycroft smiles slowly. “I'd like to see you try.”

 

There's a groan from John, who drops a bag of groceries on the floor. “Let me guess – you two are arguing again? Do you ever get along?”

 

“Oh no, we were having a perfectly civil interaction,” Mycroft says. “Positively invigorating, wouldn't you say, brother mine?”

 

Sherlock's lips twitch. “Yes, surprising as that may sound. But seeing as that interaction is now at an end, Mycroft is about to leave.”

 

“You're forgetting something. If I recall, you needed to practice your dancing for the wedding.” Such a bad idea, yet the words leave his mouth.

 

George Bernard Shaw called dancing the vertical expression of horizontal desire, a sentiment which Mycroft certainly agrees with. That, however, is not the problematic part – although obvious to them, it will be easy to conceal it from an outside observer who expects nothing more than brotherly affection, if that. But for him and Sherlock dancing is hardly mere expression of desire. There are things long forgotten, deliberately stashed away, things he fears dancing with Sherlock shall inevitably dredge up and bring to the forefront. Curious that he finds himself suggesting it nevertheless.

 

Sherlock's breath hitches. They both know well that Sherlock is a brilliant dancer, certainly better than Mycroft himself. Yet he goes along with it. “Mycroft is helping me.”

 

John's eyebrows rise towards his hairline. “Really?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock almost snaps. He strides to the bookcase and switches a vinyl to the record player in swift hand movements, then steps in front of Mycroft and extends an arm with a slight bow. “Shall we?”

 

Mycroft recognises Schubert from the first notes, somehow unsurprised that his brother has the record. Sherlock's blue eyes are teasing, for a good reason; Mycroft is still half-hard and waltz shall be singularly unhelpful. Truth be told, he doesn't mind. He stands up, takes Sherlock's hand, and allows himself to remember.

 

**

 

His brother is driving him insane. That's nothing new: Mycroft has excelled at that particular talent as long as Sherlock can remember, which is considerably longer than a person with an average brain would be able to.

 

Dropping to his knees and taking Mycroft's cock in his mouth in the bloody living room wasn't exactly a considered decision on his part. Mycroft was saying something about Sherlock's latest case with that smug smile of his and Sherlock wanted to shut him up. A blowjob is a well-tested method. And it was all going brilliantly until John showed up just when it was getting good. Now he's aroused and frustrated and stuck in a room with his brother and his best (only) friend. Far from an ideal situation.

 

If there is something else Mycroft excels at besides driving him insane, it is surprising him. For ninety-six per cent of the time, his brother acts as dull and predictable as his bespoke suits would have people believe him to be. However, there are moments like this – moments when Mycroft breaks the pattern and undermines Sherlock's well-founded predictions by doing something unexpected that makes Sherlock want to hiss and scowl and tear Mycroft's clothes off and dissect him into pieces, because after all this time _he should know_.

 

But, taken by surprise, he's in his living room, John watching on amused and oblivious as Sherlock follows his brother's steps on the floor and twirls in his brother's arms, Mycroft's body heat seeping into him through the suit and dressing gown separating them. And Mycroft has made it so. He knows the way Sherlock's blood flames when he manages to take him by surprise and how utterly incapable Sherlock is at resisting a challenge, even as blatant as this one was.

 

“Bloody typical,” John says, breaking his concentration – not enough to miss a step or to shift his gaze from Mycroft's, but enough for him to be even more excruciatingly conscious of their audience.

 

“What?” he demands.

 

“Of course you'd be brilliant at this, too. You must've been born a natural at everything. Are you sure you don't dance?”

 

“Rarely anymore,” Sherlock says, sees in his brother's eyes a shared remembrance of dance lessons Mummy forced on them, of subsequent lessons held in private after any need for them had passed. They haven't done this in a long time, this gentle sensual touch – always quick to fall either into an argument or into bed. Not that Sherlock hasn't wanted it, he will admit to himself in his most sincere moments, but Mycroft is untouchable. Not physically, never that – something that Sherlock relishes, takes all he can get and then some – but in a more ambiguous way. Impenetrable like a fortress.

 

“What about you, Mycroft?” John asks, “Does the British Government have time for dancing or is it just in Holmes genes?”

 

“You would be surprised by the myriad time constraints there are on a minor government official,” Mycroft says. John snorts, but Sherlock narrows his eyes. No jumping to conclusions, he reminds himself, and phrases it as a question.

 

“So the last time you danced was at Mummy's fiftieth?” First on the dance floor with Mummy and Aunt Clarissa and Cousin Bridget but then, in the dark of night, just the two of them in Sherlock's old bedroom surrounded by abandoned books and the clutter of Sherlock's upended suitcase.

 

“I haven't had the inclination since,” Mycroft confirms.

 

“That must've been a while ago,” John comments as they twist around.

 

“Sixteen years, four months, eight days,” Sherlock rattles out automatically. Mummy's sixtieth was just after Sherlock's second overdose – there was no dancing at that party.

 

“Like riding a bike then,” John says, making Sherlock grin.

 

“Mycroft wouldn't know about that. He never learned.”

 

“Must you, Sherlock?” Mycroft sighs, but he steps back and lets Sherlock take the lead for a change. He sometimes does, and it annoys Sherlock that he's never quite sure he wants it when it's given.

 

John has laughter in his voice. “How is that even possible?”

 

“He was way too fat as a child to ever bother with mastering physical activities,” Sherlock says, comfortably back on a familiar ground.

 

Mycroft's eyes flash. “Thankfully, I later mastered rather a few of those. Surely you can attest to that fact, brother dear?”

 

There's nothing suggestive in Mycroft's tone, and John is surprised when Sherlock nearly trips over his own feet. Mycroft merely smiles, that sleek bastard.

 

**

 

Mycroft has to admit that after leaving Baker Street, his evening at home passes slowly. He knows with a bone deep certainty that his brother will turn up, but the hours between Mycroft's departure and John taking his leave seem to crawl by. He manages some work, but his concentration keeps being shattered by the low-churning anticipation low in his stomach.

 

He can't help remembering, now.

 

The first time, if it must be quantified as such, was due to Sherlock's curiosity and his own stupidity: Sherlock just after his seventh birthday too young for it to be sexual, Mycroft himself at thirteen not quite old enough to grasp why he should deny Sherlock from observing his fumbling efforts at pleasuring himself, why he should deny Sherlock's curious fingers and the keen eyes that alighted with mischief and delight at the physical reaction to that touch. He did have a vague sense that what they were doing would upset Mummy, but there were many such things and it had taught them secrecy rather than restraint.

 

It surprised him, he remembers, how much more interesting the simple act became with Sherlock. It had nothing to do with sexual attraction or desire towards his brother at the time – he thanks the Lord that's one perversion he's had no inclination towards. A technicality, but small mercies nonetheless. Attraction and desire came several years later, once Sherlock grew into himself. But Mycroft did find it exciting.

 

It wasn't long after the incident that he came to grasp the concept of sex and the taboos surrounding gender, blood relation, and most importantly age. The more he read, the clearer the consensus – both cultural and legal – that he was sexually abusing his little brother, the only person he'd always wished to protect above all. He felt horrible.

 

Sherlock stubbornly refused to accept Mycroft's conclusions and resisted his attempts at gaining privacy. He could stop Sherlock from touching him inappropriately, but there was no conceivable method for him to stop Sherlock from watching when so inclined, not when his little brother was a skilled lockpick and Mycroft was a teenage boy with the needs of one. Neither did Sherlock take well Mycroft's attempts to withdraw physically from embraces and other non-sexual intimacy that was typical to them. Sherlock counted his big brother amongst the personal possessions he was entitled to, alike to the trinkets he gathered from the kitchens or the gardens. And when their parents fought again, Mycroft didn't have the heart to turn Sherlock away – his protective instincts clashing and in the end allowing his brother to crawl into bed with him and fall asleep curled up to Mycroft's chest.

 

When Mycroft left for university, he was finally able to gain emotional distance from his brother. He successfully walled himself up and hoped Sherlock would connect with his peers. But Sherlock was never interested in real people, and he was like a force of nature when he wanted something. Mycroft was always too weak to resist, and thus they continued to crash together, inevitable like a train wreck. He held onto what he could and no longer allowed Sherlock touch him in that way, not for many years to come. Not until one Christmas Mycroft was back home and it became clear that Sherlock, at age fifteen, wanted it not just because of curiosity or to gain leverage, but because he _wanted_ it. Mycroft caved in and has continued to do so ever since, as much as he may wish otherwise.

 

They're all weak justifications, he knows, takes responsibility for having warped his brother's desires when they were too young to know better and, what's worse, continuing to do so even when they weren't.

 

When John entered the picture and Sherlock took to him, he dared to hope – hope that his brother would finally find something healthier and no longer want him, hoped for his brother's sake even though his chest ached at the thought. But as close a friend as John became, Sherlock still had no interest in sex with anybody but Mycroft.

 

He now doubts that will ever change. And he's tired.

 

When he finally hears the unmistakeable sounds of Sherlock opening the front door and entering the alarm code, he has long since abandoned any further attempts to work and lounges in an armchair clad in nothing but a burgundy silk robe, staring at the crackling flames in his bedroom fireplace. There's a wineglass on the side table, but he's drunk hardly any of it. Sherlock has left his shoes at the front door, and his soft steps approach the bedroom without hesitation. Mycroft smiles a small smile to himself.

 

“Thirty-two seconds,” he says as Sherlock steps in. “It's been four months since it took you that long to come up with the correct combination.”

 

“I didn't expect you to be quite so sentimental,” Sherlock taunts. Mycroft can read the confusion in his eyes, even though Sherlock is trying to hide it. “Getting old, dear brother?”

 

Mycroft doesn't rise to it, merely concedes the point about sentimentality by inclining his head. He remembers that day well: getting ready to leave for university, with eleven-year-old Sherlock in his room, the soft kiss that was their first and that he hoped at the time would be their last. A part of him has always regretted it wasn't, but for once he feels he's done with regrets. Surely it's time.

 

He gets up and meets Sherlock in the middle of the room; there are things he wants more than arguing. It seems Sherlock is in agreement because he doesn't break the strange, tentative mood between them, offers no resistance as Mycroft traces fingers along cheekbones and jawline and eyebrows. With the slightest prompting Sherlock tilts his head slightly upwards for Mycroft to capture his lips. For all that Sherlock opens his mouth to invite more, the kiss is gentle, too gentle for either of them. Mycroft feels raw, flayed open, whimpers into the kiss unwillingly as his fingers sink into his brother's curls. Sherlock makes a noise like he's been punched in the gut, digs his nails into Mycroft's arms through the robe, but still he allows the unbearably gentle exploration of lips on lips. Mycroft feels heady, his body taut as a bowstring. They're breathing the same air and by God, he wants.

 

Something has shifted, Sherlock opens up like he rarely does, and Mycroft goes slow and careful like he rarely does. He licks into his brother's mouth, feels the hunger that always accompanies their encounters and never seems to be sated. Perhaps... He dares to hope.

 

**

 

Mycroft's touch is too soft on his skin, cruel in its kindness, Mycroft's mouth warm and wanting on his. His skin feels heated like he's burning up. Mycroft's robe goes first, dropped on the floor as if he _doesn't care._ Highly improbable, Mycroft _always_ cares about that sort of thing, but the robe remains on the floor like it's mocking his expectations. Sherlock's suit follows it, divested piece by piece and too slowly by Mycroft's steady hands, but Sherlock feels bared and vulnerable long before all of it is off.

 

He suspects it would be easy to stop the tenderness. A minor push would do it: teeth on Mycroft's neck, nails across his back, a few well selected words, or even a certain look from Sherlock – he could shatter the fragile hold his brother has on himself. Sherlock would be pushed onto the bed roughly, would have Mycroft's weight pinning him down and Mycroft's fingers and cock breaching his body in quick succession. He craves it, he wants that rush, wants to ride the high that comes from being used and fucked to within an inch of his life.

 

But as exposed as he feels, he wants this more. There is that familiar desire in Mycroft's eyes, but at the same time he's looking at Sherlock like he's seeing something fascinating, something to discover and to admire. It's never this way around, it's always Sherlock. He's always more fascinated with his brother than he should be, and the admiration has never gone away no matter how much he's wanted it to. He's hardly ever seen that reflected in Mycroft's eyes, Mycroft who's so quick to believe he already knows all there's to know about Sherlock, that he knows him better than Sherlock knows himself.

 

In some things, Sherlock freely admits if only to himself, it's true. Outside perspective and the ability to see and observe give Mycroft an advantage, similar as Sherlock at times has over John, knowing his mind better than John himself does. But in other things Mycroft knows him barely at all.

 

 _Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side_. His words. Losing against Mycroft is not something Sherlock allows. And yet he's caught. Ironically, not by any of Mycroft's deliberate attempts to manipulate or control him – those he can see coming. But something simpler, something he hasn't known to shield himself from, too certain it isn't there.

 

 _Caring is not an advantage_. His brother's words. They're both such hypocrites.

 

Sherlock lets go. His arms wrap around Mycroft's body and he kisses him back, the same sensual exploration of lips and tongue. It makes Mycroft sag boneless against him and moan, desperate and hungry. Sherlock's chest feels tight with too much bloody emotion and he breathes in his brother's scent. Mycroft embraces him like he's drowning, and Sherlock can't believe he never _saw_ this. And yet he can, so skilled Mycroft's deception that led to Sherlock's long-held conviction that Mycroft merely goes through the expected motions of caring – that nothing and nobody truly reaches his heart.

 

They stumble over to the bed like so many times before, yet every familiar touch seems different. Sherlock follows Mycroft and then rolls them over so that his brother is on top, Mycroft's cock hard and hot against his, forearms braced on each side of his head. He relishes it even though the usual high and abandon aren't there – instead he feels surrounded by his brother's body and almost irritatingly safe. Mycroft always makes him feel wanted, his brother's desire is obvious enough, but for the first time since their childhood he feels loved by him.

 

Sherlock's hands roam over Mycroft's back, the kisses become more heated and desperate until Mycroft breaks away for air. He leans his forehead against Sherlock's and thrusts his hips against him until he comes with a strangled groan, hot spurts of cum splattering on Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock's arrested by the expression on his flushed face, eyes shut and mouth open, nothing left of the masks he so painstakingly constructs. Sherlock's blood surges and he ruts artlessly up to his brother's body. Mycroft opens his eyes and looks at him, _sees him_ , and Sherlock is done for. Long, breathless moans escape him as the pleasure mounts and spills over into release.

 

They lie there catching their breaths for a long time, stretched longer by Mycroft's gentle fingertips on his face, the naked emotion in his eyes. Finally Sherlock speaks, and it comes out more bitter than he wants it to. “You never said anything.”

 

The corner of Mycroft's mouth betrays brittle amusement, directed at himself. “That would have been telling,” he says. “Besides, you would never have believed me.”

 

Sherlock breathes out his frustration, traces Mycroft's features in turn, is shocked by the sheen his touch brings to Mycroft's eyes. “I suppose not. But I know now.”

 

“It hardly changes anything.”

 

“Of course not,” Sherlock responds. They are both hypocrites, after all; he figures they might just as well both be liars.

 


End file.
